Poetry Corner | the poet Mary Oliver regarding trees

Green, Green is My Sister's House

Don't you dare climb that tree

or even try, they said, or you will be

sent away to the hospital of the 

very foolish, if not the other one.

And I suppose, considering my age,

it was fair advice.

But the tree is a sister to me, she lives alone in a green cottage 

high in the air and I know what

would happen, she'd clap her green hands, 

she'd shake her green hair, she'd

welcome me. Truly

I try to be good but sometimes 

a person just has to break out and

act like the wild and springy thing 

one used to be. It's impossible not

to remember wild and want it back. So

if someday you can't find me you might 

look into that tree or - of course, 

it's possible - under it.

                 ~ ~ ~

Foolishness? No, It's Not!

Sometimes I spend all day trying to count
the leaves on a single tree. To do this I
have to climb branch by branch and
write down the numbers in a little book.
So I suppose, from their point of view,
it's reasonable that my friends say: what
foolishness! She's got her head in the clouds
again.

But it's not. Of course I have to give up,
but by then I'm half crazy with the wonder
of it - the abundance of the leaves, the
quietness of the branches, the hopelessness
of my effort. And I am in that delicious
and important place, roaring with laughter,
full of earth-praise.